Although I’ve not spent much time in barns, I’ve been accused of being raised in one.

The iconic southern rural barn, which once dotted the landscape with gambrel roofs, painted red clapboard siding and large doors suitable for an International tractor to pass through, are slowly melting into the ground from which they sprouted many decades ago.

Now, many new farm structures are metal, which ring hollow and lack the warmth and soul of old heart pine beams and hay lofts, where children misbehaved and an occasional kiss was stolen.

Places where livestock were reared, grain was stored, tools were forged, tobacco hung and moonshine steeped, are now antiques left over from the early working farm. Now, many new farm structures are metal, which ring hollow and lack the warmth and soul of old heart pine beams and hay lofts, where children misbehaved and an occasional kiss was stolen.

Now, old barns are being dismantled and sold, piece by piece, for the valuable relics they’ve become, not in whole, but in part. Ingredients used to construct these hubs of farm life are now coveted by milling companies for furniture, flooring and repurposed for new home construction. All are honoring gestures to that which gifted its pieces, but the land it once anchored is missing a piece of its history.

Like hungry hippos, buyers are scrambling to find the next tobacco barn slated to fall. Old growth trees, which were once harvested and shaped by the caring hands of skilled carpenters who lived in these farming communities, are now the cats meow of fine living.

Because I am a writer, not a fighter, I could dream up a dozen metaphors and analogies to pair with this little lamb’s wool thread I am spinning. I believe the one which weighs heaviest on my pitchfork is, some of us have lost a vital connection to our past. Divorcing our association to the southern farm has distanced our understanding of where our food comes from.

We’ve forgotten the value of our ancestors. Those patriarchs and matriarchs who have melted into the soil where they were last laid, have been written off as a non-essential piece of our historical fabric. The generations, from which we were born, cultivated and harvested what they needed to build the foundation for their families. It is a fountain of wealth and wisdom we seem to no longer tap.

Our “grands” and “great grands” honed their lives for what was good, pure and right. They built life giving structures for us to admire, but now, some of these structures have been left for ruin. If only we could, like pickers at an antique show, sift through these old proverbial barns of the past, take what is valuable to repurpose, but also search for that which our ancestors intended to leave behind, which has grown exponentially in value. Things like wisdom, resourcefulness, respect, character and the dignity found in hard work and providing for your neighbor.

The investment they once made in us are yielding dividends we can now claim as our own. They have passed down their precious legacy for us to enjoy. We just gotta reach back far enough to find it.

The right words, when thoughtfully strung together, can inspire, motivate and bring purpose to a charge that otherwise may never care to suit up on game day. If words matter, as these have for so many who’ve donned the Athens Drive uniform, it’s the man behind the words, and his heart, that matter more.

Athens Drive Baseball Coach Dave Randall Ebert (‘83-‘91) is the man, and his heart is the reason we gathered yesterday to honor his tenure. His dedication to Athens Drive High School spanned well beyond the field of dreams he diligently cultivated, but it was his teams of sand lot players he seemed to care about most and we knew it.

“Coach E” was a mentor, teacher, friend and could lay down tough love that hurt at times, but deep in our core, we knew he cared as if we were his own blood. Like a good father, he demonstrated his love through his actions. He spent countless hours, most unbeknownst to his players, building the foundation necessary to not only create a quality program, but to create quality young men. We left his well manicured diamond better ball players than when we entered, but more importantly, we left better people.

Along the way, I met a man who’s sole purpose in life was not the numbers on the scoreboard, but more a man who’s scoreboard was numbered with the boys he sharpened into men, men who still care enough to stand by his side thirty years after his last round of infield.

– Steve Wade on Coach Dave Ebert

I’ll save the rest for a book someday, one which would require a thousand pages to hold the stories, memories, and lessons learned between the dugouts. As fish tales grow larger with time, often based in little truth, my memories of Athens Drive baseball are steeped in honest tales of hard work, earned success, and a purpose to achieve beyond what I thought I could muster.

Thanks Coach! Job well done!

So, is it PEE-CAN or PUH-CON? I believe the most citified among us would vote for the latter. Us southern folk, I would bet, prefer the correct pronunciation which resembles something a teenager may do in a can on a road trip in a pinch. Either way, these nuts are hidden gems in a milk chocolate colored shell.

Like manna, which lay about the ground, it only takes a quick crouch to gobble up a handful. These delectable nuts rain from on high. Though like fruits of labor snatched from the fertile soil by both mechanical harvesters and human hands, pecans are equally as satisfying. Kale, not so much.

These sweet nuts perform best when swimming inside a pie shell doused in gooey goodness. Pecans, House Autry breading notwithstanding, are a southerner’s secret ingredient we sneak in to about any baked good we deem necessary. If you happen to have a bottle of bourbon born in the bluegrass state and a bit of bitter sweet chocolate, throw together a Kentucky pecan pie. Just be judicious with the liquor. Your six-year old needs not any additional aid to misbehave at the family gathering.

As most mischievous boys under the age of 12 might do, I spent many days coercing my nutty snacks from the trees they were attached to with whatever I could throw high enough to relieve them from their high perch. Footballs worked best. I paid no mind to the ones under foot as I pursued my quarry. It was way too much fun doing it my way. As I aged, and my enthusiasm for working harder waned, I began to adopt what smart southern pecan harvesters have done for generations…lay down a tarp for a few days and, like a hungry hippo, gather those which have jumped to their demise by the hundreds. Tossing pecans in a tin pail from on far, was also a great way to pass the time and improve my hand-eye coordination.

Be sure to grab a slice of sweet pecan pie, pecan clusters or pecan pralines, along with a frosty mug of eggnog this Christmas, an alcohol spike is optional. I promise this fruit born from heaven will not disappoint. There’s also a sense of satisfaction, whether cracked by hand two by two or with a tool, the effort is worth the work.

To say southerners place these oblong nuts close to the top of the dessert food pyramid of ingredient goodness is no exaggeration. Fresh from the tree is best and the most fun, but if you find yourself with an hankering for pee-cans, Elizabeth’s Pecans in Turkey, NC has a respectable offering of all kinds, but like gambling, commit to a quota of how many you plan to eat or the bag will be empty before you hit your front door.

In spite of my effort to bury the hatchet of sleeplessness, I awoke this morning before the rooster could muster his first gesture of gratitude to the new day’s sun. My slumber had abruptly ended for no defendable reason. My brain was like, “good morning, Sunshine”, but my body was not feeling sunny or shiny. I had come alive about the time the nocturnal predators were punching the time clock and heading to the comfort of their daytime lair.

As a child, about the time when Garanimals were pre-school chic, TV was my main source of entertainment, but only when the outside elements were not conducive for a five-year old to be unaccompanied by a grown up. As adults, TV can still be the consummate pacifier. Nowadays, we binge watch Yellowstone while eating Cheetos and sour worms on the sofa. So, I decided to take a little sip of LED bliss to pass the time.

After reaching for, but fumbling the remote to the floor from the bedside table it slept on overnight, my belly ballast shifted, almost rolling me out of bed. I managed to upright myself to a place where my equilibrium was more satisfied. My plan was to lie there until my stomach expressed its need to be filled.

I love black and white television shows and, at 6:00 am, there’s a gaggle of ‘em to be found all across my over the air antenna. We cut the umbilical cord long before Beverly Hills 90210 became a thing.

Sometimes, I ponder what life was like living in black and white. No cell phones, laptops, or kids on a couch playing Call of Duty. Bicycles littered driveways, ice cream trucks made their rounds, a garden hose was a source for mischief and capture the flag ruled the day, until the street lights lit up. I guess there were no Chick-Fil-As or Bojangles’ either. I may need to rethink my ponderin’.

Because brevity is the soul of wit, I feel obligated to express my point and then quickly, but quietly exit this stage of prognostication.

There’s not much good to be gained from living in the gray, fifty shades or one. Gray seems uncertain, indistinguishable, and just blah. I was taught something was either one way or the other. Living life in black and white gives me clarity, decisiveness and direction. It’s right, or wrong. Knowing the rules just makes life work.

The Andy Griffith Show is one I still watch. Of all the things this program gets right, the one which has had the most impact on me and other well meaning men is, the fictional, but identifiable, Andy Taylor.

He showed us how to be a loving and engaged father, a trusted and revered pillar of the community, and a loyal friend. There wasn’t ne’er a problem Sheriff Taylor couldn’t solve. He cared deeply for his family, had the compassion of an angel and loved those he disagreed with without condition. He was dependable, reliable and always put other’s interests ahead of his own. He’s who I want to be, but sometimes my good example blinker is broken.

I owe a great sense of gratitude to Andy Taylor for helping to shape me into the person I’ve become. As a father, husband, and friend, I often pause in moments of indecision and ask myself, “what would Andy do?” Andy Taylor is more than just a fictional character. He’s a connector, a path maker, a model of all things good but, most importantly, he’s a man of character and integrity, two traits I covet.

I’ll close with one of my favorite quotes Andy ever uttered on the show, and one that envelops my heart with each re-run I watch; “When a man carries a gun all the time, the respect he thinks he’s gettin’ might really be fear. So I don’t carry a gun because I don’t want the people of Mayberry to fear a gun. I’d rather they would respect me…”

The point at Cape Lookout, NC can be as docile as it is violent. As it recedes twice a day, it exposes the sandy underbelly of that which holds the fish we hunt. The sandbar just below the froth that floats above it is like a refuge for unsuspecting prey. As the tide rises, so does the opportunity for drum and others of their ilk to rise with it.

Like hungry beach goers standing in line at the local seafood shack at supper time, I imagine the predators that lurk in the deep follow their instinct to keep their bellies full. It’s at these times, when the opposing tides from the north and south side of the point, which flow and blend over one another, resemble a civil war battlefield of strength and power. It’s also a time to retreat from the surf lest your salty beach wagon be consumed by that which we love…the ocean.

I’ve had good luck here, but luck is all I’ve ever had. Some days, although my fishing calendar doesn’t always align with the quarry I pursue, sitting in my beach chair at the point feels as if I’m a boatswain minding my bow with nothing but ocean all around.

Some friendships here are made between tides, when times are slow and stories are traded like baseball cards on the playground of our youth. Surf fishing alone never really feels lonely here, or really anywhere as long as sand sticks to our tires and salt to our skin.

It’s a site to behold and one which is cherished by anyone who’s been there. Whether camping, fishing, shelling or just wading in the frequent tidal pools, it‘s a destination of which takes effort to reach but its effort worth giving.

Tight lines y’all!

These recent southern fall sunrises seem to be a dime a dozen. A ten cent coin. One tenth of one dollar. In the 1970s, the five and dime was the perfect place to pledge your silver Roosevelt for important things like, baseball cards and July snow cones. It’s a shame a dime isn’t worth the same anymore. Most of mine reside in the abyss of a Mason jar. Along with pennies and nickels, I don’t expend much energy keeping track of their whereabouts. They’re like Blackbeard’s treasure…buried somewhere deep in the bowels of my sofa where they’ll never be found, and I’m ok with that.

Because any southern thinker would, as I was cookin’ up these marinated thoughts, it hit me like a passel of three-year-old boys racing to the Goldfish table for Sunday School snack time. I’ve realized, that no amount of our most diminutive American coin is sufficient compensation for the moment when the southern sun tips its hat to the setting moon such as that which unfolded before me this morning. Rubbing two nickels together won’t work either, but nice try. Even if one were Rich Uncle Pennybags, there wouldn’t be enough coins to make ends meet.

As heavy as the southern heat and humidity are, which comes to nap on our wilting summer shoulders, so the sun, as it journeys southward until, at the winter solstice, it rises, cool and refreshing, as far to the south as it can muster, it’s worth stepping into the confessional of creation to praise its beauty. It’s on these mornings when facing southward encourages my soul and awakens my spirit to enjoy this place I call home.

So, if my musings haven’t yet fallen off the donkey creeping along the canyon trail of similies and metaphors, I’d like to bring this home.

I think, for someone who rarely carries any jingle, its ok for me to accept that which boiled in the sky, like a lava lamp, as a free gift for me to enjoy, no dimes required. This colorful display was priceless, not because I couldn’t afford it, but because it was afforded to me with no expectation for repayment. As we’ve been taught, nothing in life is free…unless it’s from the hands of He who made it. God’s gifts are our’s to accept. Our dimes are no good to Him. Only our hearts need apply.

As a child, somewhere between when girls had cooties and The Dukes of Hazzard were “makin’ their way the only way they knew how”, I tinkered with toy airplanes. I was most adept with the paper kind and would test my designs at the most inappropriate times.

I’ve always had a certain awe, much like a metal head might have at a Metallica concert, of people who could get things airborne and keep them there, safely. Pilots, if you will, are an icy bunch. The better ones, the ones I prefer to ride along with, are stone cold serious at their craft. If you’ve ever listened to aviators talk to one another, while in flight, they ooze gravitas. Their speech is measured, direct and, if you listen long enough, has a hypnotic effect. I truly believe, if the “Calm” app could record just a few minutes of air traffic control comms, ocean waves and rain drops would no longer be the favorites to soothe our restless minds.

It sometimes seems the two most used pieces of furniture in our home are the front porch rocking chairs in which we come to rest in many days.

There are few things I truly love. I love the outdoors, my family, college football, mama’s fried chicken, and I love sweet tea, the nectar of the south. I also love special places. Places like old diners, muddy duck swamps, and the State Fair on a clear, crisp, October day. But there’s a place I especially love not far from where I lay my head at night. It’s right beyond the threshold of my front door.

As if stepping through a portal to when life was seen in black and white, a good front porch is a salve for the senses. It’s a place where a simple offering of a swing, a cold drink, and soft shell peanuts are sufficient to pass the time. Some say the kitchen is the heart of the home, but I believe the front porch is its soul. The squeal of the floor planks as the rocker presses against its bones and the creak of the chain that suspends the faded wooden swing is like a welcoming committee to a road weary traveler. It’s a magical place where boys kiss girls, families reunite, lies are told, and life is celebrated, even the hard parts.

Some say the kitchen is the heart of the house, but I believe the front porch is its soul.

– Steve Wade

As a child, our front porch was always a cool retreat suggesting the hot days of summer had somehow been omitted from the party’s guest list. Growing up, it was a place where we shelled peas, snapped beans, and shucked corn from our garden. Hummingbirds, like the Red Baron, flew sorties hither and tither, stopping only briefly to slurp the red Kool-Aid provided for their sipping pleasure. The smell of honeysuckle vines and gardenias pushing through the rail pickets would well up in me a craving for popsicles and fresh squeezed lemonade.

I don’t see folks lounging on front porches much anymore. Perhaps it’s because of air conditioning, mosquitoes, or people just do not like people like we used to. What once was an open invitation to sit a spell has become a moat for solicitors and those who cycle two-by-two.

Most new homes now have porch stoops which are perfect places for plants, rocking chairs need not apply. Backyard patios seem to be where the action is, but it is not the same. As the late comedian and writer, Lewis Grizzard, once wrote, “It’s hard to get drunk and fall off a patio”.

Wherever your proverbial “porch” may be in life, whether at home or some other proverbial special place, find those you love, swing in the dark, snap some beans, wrestle with truth, tell some tall stories, but some true, too, and kiss your main squeeze until mama flickers the porch light, as the next kiss will have to wait until tomorrow.

Because my memory tends to slop around like an old wet mop inside a galvanized wash bucket, there are few things I can remember beyond yesterday’s lunch, some of which has rendered me paralyzed when called upon by my wife to bring forth truth of important dates in our lives that not even the Dewey Decimal System could find. Only because of picture shakin’ cameras and Super 8 film can anyone prove I was ever the mischievous child my mother said I was. Now, at 6’-4” and tipping the scale just under the allowable weight limit of most commercial step ladders, the ballast in my mind equals that in my trunk. However, there is one memory which shook me to the core, and one I’ll never shake…Plebe Parent Weekend.

There is simply no reunion, on this side of heaven, any sweeter, as if dipped in Godiva chocolate, than the moment your plebe, the child you birthed, reared, and set afloat along the Severn, appears from the sea of exuberant mayhem while wearing their new angelic summer white uniform. You may hyperventilate from excitement, but that’s ok. It’s expected. Fainting is not. Stoicism is in short supply on this day and big salty tears are encouraged to walk the plank of gratefulness as you behold who your son or daughter has become over the six weeks since you left them at Alumni Hall. The United States Naval Academy is presenting to you their newest and best for you to enjoy this weekend. It’s as if your child has been born again.

But in all this, don’t miss the moments. The moment when you embrace your child for the first time in six weeks. It’ll be a moment, even a forgetful mind such as mine, will never forget. Cherish the conversations. Take advantage of the tours. Relish in visiting Bancroft and going “on deck”, a top secret place parents rarely see. Visit PEP at 0600, you’ll be glad you did. Walk the Yard, engage together, and hug, a lot. Buy gobs of N*AVY spirit gear, feed your plebe well and often, and say goodnight, only when you have to.

Take lots of photos. Like most of us, they’ll soon adorn your home, office, and social media. Also, take lots of time. Our youngest mid’s “love language” is quality time. I believe your plebe might agree, at least this weekend, their’s is too. They need to know, no matter their circumstances, struggles, disappointments, desires and successes, you have their six. Their is no one who holds more dear the heart of your child than you. Certificates, medals, and trophies need not apply.

For those parents who cannot see their amazing kids this weekend, find comfort in knowing you have grown some of the finest young men and women this great country has to offer. Your children are among accomplished people who have their best interest at heart. We are one big Navy family. We take care of our own and we will take care of your’s too.

Our second midshipman is a Firstie now. She’s pictured below. I had to pry Mama Bear away from her sweet cub. Each of our two PPW reunions were a gift and ones we still display on our shelves and will always bear in our hearts. Bring boxes of Kleenex, shout wipes, and lots of love, hugs, and kisses. You simply cannot over deposit those.

Our family will be there this weekend too with our firstie to celebrate the retirement of her sponsor dad, a Navy Commander. I’m sure we’ll reminisce a little about this day three years ago, when we too were spread out along Stribling Walk and Tecumseh Court. If I happen to stroll by, I’ll be the big guy holding the box of Kleenex under my arm trying not to hyperventilate while watching y’all love on your kids. ⚓️